


Heartache on a Vine

by vangoghspaint



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Sherlock as a serial killer, serial killer au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vangoghspaint/pseuds/vangoghspaint
Summary: Years after serial killer Sherlock Holmes is put away for multiple murder convictions and the attempted murder of investigator John Watson, another serial killer starts hunting the people of London; forcing John to seek help in his old friend.
Relationships: Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	1. The Hair

John was laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling of his small unit housing. His dinner was left uneaten at his desk and he was ignoring the pain of hunger in his stomach when his phone started ringing. He sprung into action, sitting up and answering the call on the first ring. 

“Hello,” he asked in a rushed voice.

“There’s been another one. A couple of kids found her in an abandoned apartment building in Brixton at Lauriston Gardens,” a tired Lestrade said over the phone.

“I’ll be right over,” John said, already getting out of bed.

“Could you pick up Sherlock first? Mike usually does it but he’s out on holiday.”

“Uh, sure. He’s over on by the hospital, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks, John, I appreciate it. Let me know if he’s too much of an arse,” the inspector said before hanging up.

Fifteen minutes later John was pulling up to an apartment complex that he somewhat recognized from the few times he’d been there. After no more than a few seconds a tall, dark figure slipped out onto the sidewalk and got into the car before pulling out his phone without a word.

“Evening,” John said after staring at the man for a moment.

“Evening,” he replied, not bothering to look up at him. John sighed and pulled back onto the street before he headed over to where Lestrade had said the body was found.

“Did Greg tell you anything about the scene,” he asked. Sherlock looked up from his phone with a questioning look.

“Greg?”

“Lestrade. Did he tell you anything?”

“Just that this one was like all the others. She was found in an abandoned building so she was obviously lured.”

“Obviously,” John whispered sarcastically to himself. The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the tapping of Sherlock on his phone. They reached the crime scene in twenty minutes and came to a stop beside the flashing police cars. They ducked under the police tape and went up to where Sally Donovan was talking to some local police.

“Lesterade inside already,” John asked when Donovan turned to them.

“Yeah, he’s waiting for you.” She turned to Sherlock. “And what’re you doing here, freak?”

“My job, if you believe it or not,” the taller man answered coolly, his brow furrowed.

“Well just don’t try to muck up the scene too much. We found one of your hairs at the last one.”

“My apologies. And do tell Dimmock I said hello,” he said before he started walking towards the apartment building, John following close behind.

“DI Dimmock isn’t working this case,” Donovan shouted after him.

“No, but you’re seeing him later aren’t you? His wife’s out of town,” Sherlock shouted back, causing many of the officers to look at him and a blushing Donovan.

“You didn’t have to do that you know,” John chided as the two made their way upstairs were most of the commotion seemed to be going on.

“Do what,” Sherlock asked, his tone giving away that he knew exactly what his companion was referring to.

“Embarrass her like that. She’ll never like you if you keep doing that.” Suddenly, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and whipped around to glare at the shorter man.

“I don’t need her to like me. I’m not here to be liked, I’m here to do a job.”

John looked up at him in shock before he pulled himself together and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and bit out, “quite,” before he turned back around and continued up the stairs. John followed slowly after, his heart racing at the memory of the man’s sudden change in behavior.

Lestrade was waiting for them outside a small room, the doorway sealed off by a clear, plastic tarp. “Took you long enough,” he joked once the two neared him.

“We were delayed,” Sherlock said, glancing back at John who ducked his head in embarrassment. Without further explanation, Sherlock walked right past the inspector and into the closed off room.

“What was that all about,” Lesterade asked as John slipped into the protective covering his coworkers already wore. 

“Nothing,” John grumbled out before the two went to join Sherlock. They found him hunched over the body of a woman dressed in all pink, a small magnifying glass in his hand.

“She’s a serial adulterer,” he said once he noticed the them.

“Now how in bloody hell can you tell that,” Lesterade asked.

“Her wedding ring. The rest of her jewelry has been cleaned regularly, but not her wedding ring. The inside is shinier than the outside, meaning it’s regularly removed; the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger,” the consultant said in one breath, moving around the body while he spoke. “It’s not for work. Look at her nails, she doesn’t work with her hands. So what, or rather whom, does she remove her ring for? Clearly not one lover.”

“Clearly,” Lesterade mumbled under his breath in a sarcastic tone.

“She’d never sustain the fiction of being single over time,” Sherlock continued, not hearing him. “So more likely a string of them. Simple,” he finished.

“Brilliant,” John said despite himself. A habit he’d fallen into since he’d started working with Sherlock. The trenchcoat-clad man gave him a smirk before he turned to the inspector who looked between the two.

“So what? She came here to meet a lover,” he asked.

“No, of course not. She must’ve been lured in some way.”

“Lured?”

“Dear god, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring,” Sherlock insulted. Lestrade simply rolled his eyes, used to the abuse.

“She wouldn’t meet some random man in an abandoned building like this. Maybe they met somewhere else and he brought her here,” John supplied, looking to Sherlock for validation.

“Precisely John,” he praised. “You’ll want to see who she last contacted on her phone and find where they decided to meet.”

“There’s no phone,” Lesterade cut in.

“What do you mean,” Sherlock asked with a glare.

“She didn’t have a phone. We’ve already searched her person and looked all over the building. There’s no phone.”

“This case just becomes more interesting by the minute,” Sherlock said giddily, causing the other two to share a grimace.

“Sir,” Donovan said from the doorway. “The forensic team is here.”

“You’ll want to track down her number and trace her last call to the location she made it,” Sherlock said as he walked past her back into the hallway.

“I don’t take orders from you,” she said defiantly.

“Just do it, Sally,” Lesterade said as he followed behind and started taking off his coveralls. She sighed loudly and stomped through the crowd of people who were awkwardly trying to get all their gear into the small room.

“I see she still doesn’t like you,” John said to Sherlock quietly, trying to make light of their conversation earlier. Sherlock gave him a smile as he waited for John to take off his own coveralls.

The two walked out of the building and back towards John’s car so he could give him a lift home.

“You’ll call me when the forensics come back,” Sherlock said once they started driving, his tone being more of an order rather than a question.

“Sure, but I can’t imagine her cause of death will be different from the others,” John said, ignoring the bristle of annoyance that went through him.

“It’ll be strangulation, just like the others. In fact, I doubt they’ll find anything new,” the passenger said as he pulled out his phone and began typing away again.

“Then why do you want me to keep you updated?”

“I like to hear your theories on the case. It does wonders for my thought process,” Sherlock said, not looking away from his screen. Beside him, John struggled to hide his blush. 

***

It was early in the morning two days later and John was in Lesterade’s office, bringing him paperwork to add to his growing pile.

“This case is going to be the end of me,” Lesterade groaned out.

“Don’t worry. We have a great forensics team. I’m sure they found something at this last scene,” John tried to comfort.

“Well they didn’t find anything at the last three.”

“They know what she was strangled with this time.””

“Oh yes. A rope. How helpful,” the inspector said sarcastically as he buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his tired eyes.

“Sir,” Donovan said in an annoyed tone as she burst into his office, interrupting them.

“Have they got something,” he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“They found a hair.”

“A hair? Were they able to link to anyone?”

“Yes, sir. Sherlock Holmes.” Both Lesterade’s and John’s excitement deflated.

“That twit. He’s always contaminating crime scenes,” Lesterade said as he fell back into his chair.

“I think it’s more to it than that, sir,” Donovan said.

“What do you mean? You said it yourself that they found one of his hairs at the last crime scene,” John asked.

“Yes but this one they found under the body,” she explained. This piqued the two men’s interest.

“Under it,” Lesterade asked.

“Yes, sir. Me and Dimmock both think maybe me moved the body while you two were out of the room.”

“Move the body? Would he really contaminate a crime scene like that,” John asked, looking to Lestrade.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” he said, rubbing at his hair like he did when he was annoyed. “John, would you mind going to his flat and ask him about it? We can’t have him consulting on cases if he’s going to break the rules.”

“Sure,” John answered before he headed out the door.

“I think you should take him off the case,” Donovan said once he’d left.

“Thank you for the input, Sally,” Lesterade said dismissively before going back to his paperwork. She huffed and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

***

John buzzed Sherlock’s flat number and in a short moment a noise sounded, indicating the front door had been unlocked. John stepped inside and made his way up the stairs to his door. He knocked and within a few seconds the consultant opened the door. 

“John. I was expecting a phone call but this is a pleasant surprise,” he greeted.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if we could talk.”

“Of course. Please, come in.” John stepped inside the spacious apartment. It was cluttered with books and papers covering every available surface. “Have a seat,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the couch. John did so and watched as his host sat in a chair opposite of him. “Any updates on the case?”

“Yes. They found that she was strangled by a piece of rope, meaning the rest of them probably were as well.”

“She must’ve been strangled longer. If the killer strangled her long enough to leave indentations when on the others there were none, perhaps he had a personal vendetta against her,” Sherlock said almost to himself.

“Perhaps. But they found something else. A hair.”

“Were they able to ID someone with this hair?”

“Yes. They ID’d it as yours.”

“Mine,” Sherlock asked, almost surprised. “Well maybe I should start wearing the coveralls like Lesterade’s been bugging me about. It’ll save the forensic team some time.”

“Well that’s not what Greg’s really concerned about,” John continued.

“Greg?”

“Lesterade. They found the hair under the body.”

“Oh,” Sherlock asked incredulously, raising his eyebrow at his guest.

“Sherlock. You know I have the utmost respect for what you do. You’ve helped the yard with hundreds of cases and god knows how many of those would’ve gone unsolved without you.”

“But?” John sighed.

“But you can’t move the body,” he continued. “It contaminants the entire crime scene.”

“Lesterade told you he thinks I moved the body,” Sherlock asked, his face seeming to darken.

“Donovan actually,” John answered. “But she’s right. I mean, me and Greg were only in the hallway for a couple of seconds but unless you were there when she died-“ John cut himself off, the realization slowly washing over him. Sherlock looked at him, a smile beginning to stretch across his face.

“But of course I wasn’t,” he said in an even voice.

“Of course. There’s no possible way,” Johns said, more for himself than for Sherlock. The sound of a tea kettle whistling from the kitchen caused John to jump. Sherlock chuckled at this and stood up from his seat. 

“I was making tea before you arrived. Would you like a cup?”

“Um, sure. Thank you,” John said, feeling more relaxed though his stomach still ached with the knowledge that something wasn’t adding up. Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John alone in the cluttered room. He got up and began looking around. 

A laptop on the table. A stack of newspapers on the floor. A skull on the mantle. Next to the skull sat a stack of loose papers and under them, a flash of color caught John’s attention. He walked over and picked up the stack of papers, finding a phone in a bright pink case hidden under them. The feeling of realization started gnawing at him as he slowly put the papers back down and pulled out his one phone.

“Come to Sherlock’s. Bring back up,” he texted Lesterade. He had just slipped his phone back into his pocket when he heard a creak behind him. He turned around and practically walked right into the knife.


	2. Blood Soaked

The first thing John felt was the burning of where the knife had pushed through his skin and into his stomach. He knees wobbled and finally gave out, but he was caught by Sherlock’s free hand, holding his trembling body to his own. John reached down and weakly tried to push away the hand that held the knife in vain. In response Sherlock simply pushed it in deeper, causing a wet pop sound and more blood to spill out and soak his sweater and pants. 

“I am sorry about this, John, but you got too close. You understand,” Sherlock whispered darkly before pressing his nose into his victim’s hair, taking a deep breath. In his arms, John continued to shake. A cool sweat breaking out over his body and his head becoming light with blood loss. “I guess it is my fault. But everyone eventually becomes lazy, forgetful. Even if it takes years.”

John tried to groan something out but the pain wouldn’t let him. Sherlock shushed him gently and rubbed his back almost reassuringly. The last thing John remembered was the sound of the door being crashed open and the smell of Sherlock’s cologne.

Hours later John was receiving surgery and Sherlock was handcuffed in an interrogation room while Lestrade stared at him through the one way mirror. Donovan came to a stop beside him, looking at the killer in disgust.

“How many do you think he’s killed,” she asked.

“Well there’s the four strangulations,” Lestrade said in an exhausted voice.

“You thinks that’s all there is? He’s helped on a lot of cases.” The inspector ignored her and instead went into the fluorescent lit room where Sherlock sat. He looked up at him with a smile when he entered.

“Lestrade. You look tired. And you’re smoking again,” he said after glancing the officer up and down.

“How many,” he asked, ignoring Sherlock’s comment while he sat down across from him.

“How many what,” he asked with a knowing grin. Lestrade closed his eyes in annoyance.

“How many have you killed?”

“I can’t remember off the top of my head but I’m sure if your team is good enough they’ll come up with a good approximation.” Sherlock’s reluctance caused Lestrade to sigh and rub at his graying hair.

“John figured it out. That’s why you stabbed him.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed. “I wouldn’t have hurt him otherwise. I like John.”

“Like him? You’re incapable of liking people,” Lestrade shouted, his self control snapping. “You’re a bloody psychopath!”

“High functioning, but still.”

“You know where John is now? He’s in surgery! God only knows if he’ll survive! But I’ll tell you what.” Lestrade paused to stand up from his seat and looked over the smirking killer. “If he dies, I’ll kill you. You won’t last the night. You hear me?”

“I’m looking forward to see you try,” Sherlock said through a slimy grin. Lestrade kicked his chair back and stormed out, slamming the door closed as he went.

***

John survived the surgery but was in a coma for almost five months. Lestrade was relieved that he missed the trial and all the publicity that came with it. In the end, they were only able to pin eight murders on him, though Sherlock continuously hinted at there being many more. But the viciousness of each crime was enough to put him away for life without possibility of parole. 

Lestrade later heard that he didn’t say a word to anyone outside of court besides his defense team until the day John woke up. Apparently he’d said he was thankful the world didn’t lose the one man clever enough to stop him.

Lestrade spent almost everyday with John in the hospital after he woke up. Though John seemed to enjoy his company, he also seemed depressed at the very sight of him.

“I should’ve stopped him, Greg,” he said one day over a game of cards.

“You did stop him.”

“No. I should’ve stopped him sooner. He said he’d been killing for years. I’m a homicide detective, I should’ve seen the signs sooner.”

“We all should’ve seen the signs,” Lestrade cut in. “I knew him longer than you did and I didn’t see anything. For god's sake, I thought the worst thing he’d done was contaminate the crime scene. It didn’t even cross my mind that he was the one who put that body there.” John looked away from him, his eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall.

“We were...close,” he forced out. “He was my friend. But I still couldn’t see what he really was. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“How am I supposed to find killers when I let him roam free for years,” John asked, finally able to look him in the eyes.

“You made one mistake, John. We all did,” Lestrade tried to console. “You can’t give up your career over one mistake.”

“It was more than one mistake. People died because of me, Greg. How can I go on calling myself an officer if I let this happen?”

“You didn’t let this happen,” Lestrade said quietly, not knowing what else to say. John laughed humorlessly.

“Yes, I did. I’m done.”

John didn’t stay in the hospital long after he quit the yard. He went back to his cramped unit housing where he hid out until the media finally decided he was old news and left him alone.

One night he was walking home from the store, using a cane to help his new limp when he heard a phone ringing from inside a phone booth. He ignored it and continued on his way until a couple blocks over he heard another phone in another booth ringing. He looked around the nearly empty street before he stepped into the booth, setting his bags down on the ground before answering.

“Hello,” he asked curiously.

“There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. Do you see it,” a sour yet educated voice said over the line.

“Sorry, who is this,” John asked.

“Do you see the camera, detective Watson,” the voice asked again. John looked around questionly before he found said camera.

“Yeah.”

“Watch,” the voice said. John watched as the camera turned away from where it faced him. “There’s another camera on the footbridge to your left. Do you see it?” John turned around until he saw the camera.

“Yes,” he said quietly, his heart beating quickly in his chest. He watched as that camera too turned away from him.

“And finally at the top of the street lamp two along, on your right.” John looked over and sure enough that camera also turned away.

“How are you doing that,” he asked, his voice shaking.

“The How is not important, detective Watson, but the why is. I wanted to apologize,” the voice said.

“Apologize? For what?”

“On behalf of Sherlock Holmes.” The noise of the bustling city outside the phone booth all seemed to stop and all John could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. 

“What did you say,” John asked breathily.

“His actions were less than tasteful. I wanted to extend my apologies for him putting you in the middle of everything.”

“How do you know Sherlock?”

“Well I’d say I was the closest thing to a friend he’s capable of having,” the man said with a chuckle.

“And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy,” John asked.

“Yes. Just like you. I do hope you get to feeling better soon, detective Watson. Evening,” the man said before he hung up. John kept the phone to his ear until the buzzing of the dropped call sounded. He slowly put it back on the receiver and made his way out of the booth before he limped the rest of the way home, keeping an eye out for anymore strange behavior as he went.

Five years passed before John received another phone call from the strange man, this time to his house.

“Hello,” John asked once he picked up his phone.

“Do you remember me,” the voice asked.

“What do you want,” John growled out.

“You’ve been following the recent string of murders in the papers haven’t you,” The man asked, ignoring him. John glanced at the stack of papers laid next to his chair, the top one reading, “Sarah Sawyer found mutilated in home.”

“How could you possibly know that,” he asked.

“The cases are related to Sherlock Holmes. DI Lestrade will becoming by shortly to speak to you about them.”

“Wait, how do you know-“ John was cut off by the sound of the man hanging up. He stared at the phone for a long moment until a knock sounded at his door. He and his cane walked over and answered it to find Lestrade standing outside, looking tired but happy to see him. “Greg. What, uh, what a surprise,” he greeted.

“Sorry for dropping in on you like this. I should’ve called.”

“Uh, no, it’s okay. Come on in,” John said as he stood to the side so his old friend could enter.


	3. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a little reference to ‘Silence of the Lambs’ in this one

“I like the new place,” Lestrade said, looking around the spacious cottage. John has moved out of his unit housing to the quaint house just outside of London shortly after the first mysterious call. He’d told everyone it was because he needed to get away from the bustling of the city, but it was really due to his ever-growing paranoia.

“Thanks. I think it suits me,” John lied as he sat down in his armchair, gesturing for his old friend to do the same.

“How’ve you been? It’s been awhile since we’ve talked,” he asked after he’d sat down.

“I’ve been good. Keeping myself busy,” John life again.

“That’s good. Have you given any thought to coming back to the yard,” Lestrade asked, only half joking.

“Not particularly. But I think I know why you’re here,” John said, wanting to put an end to the small talk.

“You do?”

“The murders. I’ve been following the cases.”

“I can see that,” the detective said, eyeing the stack of newspapers laying nearby.

“They must be linked somehow if you’ve come all this way to talk about it.”

“Yes, they’re linked. We only found out how recently,” Lestrade said, stalling.

“How are they linked,” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Each victim was somehow related to known Holmes cases.” John felt all color drain from his face.

“How so,” he asked quietly.

“Well the last victim was Sarah Sawyer, a doctor who had been friends with Sebastian Wilkes. Before that there was Henry Knight, nephew of Bob Frankland. Then Kenny Prince, Martha Hudson, Soo Lin Yao, and a woman named Rita Davies. We don’t know her connection to any of the cases but apparently her relative Carl Powers had drowned in 1989,” Lestrade explained.

“Do you think Sherlock has killed him?”

“It’s possible. We found records that he had called in to try to solve it. He would’ve been nine.” John said nothing and rubbed his hands along his face. He was beginning to feel nauseous.

“Well, if the killer knows that he must have some inside knowledge into Sherlock,” he said after pulling himself together.”

“Our thoughts exactly. Which is why we went to talk to him.” John felt his heart stop and his eyes bulge.

“You what?”

“Well, we tried to but he said he wouldn’t speak to anyone about the case. No one but you.”

“No. No, absolutely not,” John argued, shaking his head defiantly.

“John, do you think I’d be here asking you if I didn’t have any other choice? People are dying, and based on the evidence god knows how many more will. We never got an accurate number of Sherlock’s victims.”

“You’re asking me to speak to the man who tried to kill me,” John said in a weak voice.

“I’m asking you to make this stop.”

***

It was a short train ride to Sherrinford. The taxi dropped him off outside the prison and John steeled himself before he went in. He stared up at the sign reading “Sherrinford Prison”, his hand squeezing the handle of his cane. He took a deep breath and slowly made his way inside.

“I must say I’m surprised at your visit, detective Watson,” Dr. Anderson said while he led John into his office after nearly two hours of waiting.

“I’m not a detective anymore,” he said almost defensively. He flinched at the glare the doctor sent him. He forced on a smile. “But I’m just as surprised as you are.” The doctor put on his own smile, which he dropped as soon as he started speaking again.

“And what, may I ask, is the reason for your visit,” he asked as he sat in his large leather chair behind his oak desk. John took this as an invitation to sit down in one of the plastic chairs placed in front of it.

“Closure,” he answered, thinking back to the rumors Lesterade had told him about the doctor. The ones where he was more than willing to go to the press for a few minutes of attention.

“Closure,” Anderson asked in a disbelieving tone.

“Yes. My therapist thinks it would help for me to see Sherlock in his cell. To know that he’s locked up and won’t ever get out.” 

“Well, I can’t say I agree with the tactic,” Anderson said after a brief moment. “But maybe it will help with Sherlock and I’s own therapy. Might jog something loose,” he said with a less-than-pleasant smile. John forced himself to return it.

“I’ll have Malik walk you down. He’ll give you your instructions for speaking with Holmes.”

“Thank you, doctor,” John said, eager to get out of the building and as far away from Holmes as possible. 

Anderson picked up the phone and ordered someone to “send up Art” and within a few minutes a tired but polite looking older man was leading John down to the basement of the prison.

“We keep our most dangerous prisoners down here,” the man said as he used a keycard to unlock a barred door.

“Is he dangerous,” John asked, leaving out the “still” from his sentence.

“He had a habit of reaching out and grabbing at guards, but the cells in the basement have glass walls so he can’t get at you.” John nodded in understanding and followed the man downa long flight of stairs. “Don’t hand him anything and don’t take anything from him. If you later do want to give him something come find me and I’ll call Dr. Anderson and ask for permission. I’ll be in here,” he explained as the two walked into a small, locked room filled with screens showing the camera feed of the basement. The room blocked off the stairs to where the cells were located. It took everything in John to not peer into the hallway. “I already had one of the guys set out a chair for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” John said, his voice almost in a whisper. The man nodded.

“You just come back here when you’re done.” With that, he unlocked the last door keeping John from the monster who had ruined his and so many other’s lives.

He walked slowly towards the end of the hall where he saw a chair waiting for him. He breathed deeply as he walked, not wanting to look too pale by the time he got there. And in far too short of time he had reached the chair and turned to face a Sherlock Holmes, standing at attention in front of the glass wall that imprisoned him, looking out at John with a wide smile.

“John. So good to see you,” he greeted.


	4. A Little Eager

John said nothing, his heart caught in his throat. He met Sherlock’s eyes and though he wished he could look away, he found himself trapped in their gaze. For a brief moment he thought he was going to faint, but a deep breath cleared the idea away. Sherlock simply continued, not giving his discomfort any mind.

“You’re looking well. A few more wrinkles and deeper bags under your eyes, but that’s to be expected.” Again, John didn’t answer.

“I hear you’ve retired from the yard. It’s a shame; you were the only detective there with any sense.” Sherlock eyed the cane clenched tightly in his hand. “I could hear your cane from down the hall. I’m surprised you still use it considering you don’t need it.”

“You practically gutted me,” John blurted out, finally finding his voice. Sherlock let a grin stretch across his face.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you need it. You’re far stronger than you think” The ex-detective felt a jolt of surprise at the almost sincere words. “Now sit down. You’re quite pale and I wouldn’t want to fainting.” Sherlock said as he turned away from his visitor and sat at his desk, choosing to face the wall instead. John hesitated for a long moment before he sat but as soon he did the prisoner started speaking again. “I imagine you’re here about the killing spree and not closure like you told Anderson.”

John flinched in surprise and asked, “how could you possibly know about that?”

“It’s a small prison, John. Word gets around fast. As for the murders, I’m allowed to read the newspaper when I’m deemed worthy. Though I’m sure Anderson thinks me reading about the crimes will cause me to want to talk about my own,” Sherlock explained, putting his palms together in thought and leaning forward.

“Do you know why I’ve been asked to talk to you about them,” John asked quietly, wanting to push the conversation forward so he could get away from there as soon as possible.

“Ah yes. Dear Lestrade asked you just as I had requested. Tell me, how long had it been since the two of you had spoken? Did it upset you that he didn’t contact you until he needed your help,” Sherlock asked, glancing over the annoyed man.

“Why didn’t you just talk to them when they were here,” he asked defensively, his anger boiling over. Sherlock simply smirked at him.

“Because they’re not you. Besides,” he paused to put his feet up on his desk and stretched out his long legs, “those idiots do nothing for my thought process. You however, do wonders.” John sighed before choosing to just continue.

“We know that the murders are linked to yours in different ways. The victims are family members, neighbors, or coworkers and the like to your previous victims.”

“And how many have you ID’d to this killer through that profiling,” Sherlock asked, his smirk broadening.

“Six so far.”

“But that math doesn’t add up,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “If I killed nine and their are six victims than why hasn’t he killed anyone related to Jeffrey Patterson, the first victim of my strangulation phase?” John cringed at the idea of Sherlock killing four people a “phase”.

“We know we didn’t find all of your victims. He just hasn’t gotten to Jeffrey Patterson yet,” he said lowly.

“Very clever, John. You’re quite right. You don’t know the true number of my victims and I’m sure he doesn’t either. That and he seems to be going out of order,” Sherlock explained.

“But he knows you.”

“Hm?”

“The killer. He had to know you.” Sherlock put his legs down and spun around in his chair to face John, their eyes again immediately meeting.

“Lestrade didn’t tell you that, did he,” he asked as more of a comment rather than a question.

“No. He agreed that the killer has to have inside knowledge of you, but unless someone knows you personally, there’s no way they could know about Carl Powers.” Sherlock grinned darkly at his guest. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his stomach twirl in anxiety.

“Little Carl Powers. We met on a school trip but he didn’t want to play with me.”

“You were nine,” John said, his pulse quickening. Sherlock’s grin dropped into an expression of boredom.

“I didn’t kill Carl Powers. He had a seizure and drowned in the swimming pool.”

“Then why did he kill Rite Davies,” John asked, confused.

“I guess he doesn’t know me as well as you all seem to think he does.” Sherlock stood up slowly and laid down on his bed, intertwining his fingers on his chest and staring up at the cement ceiling. John looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to say or do something.

“What are you doing,” he finally asked.

“I’m done with this conversation.”

“You’re done,” John asked, almost insulted.

“I’m growing tired of you acting like you know anything of real value. It’s boring. Come back when you have a theory,” Sherlock mumbled up to the ceiling.

“Come back? I can’t come back here.”

“Of course you can. You want to help dear Lestrade don’t you? And all those people who’re in danger?”

“They’re in danger because of you,” John growled out.

“And they’ll stay in danger until you come back with something worth my time. A case file perhaps,” the killer hinted.

“I can’t get you a case file. I’m barely on the case.”

“You can if you ask Lestrade. I’m sure he still feels guilty enough to give you whatever you’ll need. Come back with a case file and an actual idea of what you’re doing and maybe I’ll help you. Until then.” Sherlock raised a pale hand in the air and waved it towards the retired officer. John clenched his jaw and stood up from the seat and walked back over to where Malik was waiting for him in the locked off surveillance room. He unlocked the door and led John back upstairs to the front desk. John was signing out when Dr. Anderson came out of his office and approached him.

“Detective Watson, How was your little chat with Sherlock?”

“It was fine,” John mumbled out, writing faster.

“Fine,” the doctor asked in a shocked tone.

“I mean. It was good to see him locked away,” John recovered.

“Ah. And did you get the closure you desired?”

“Something like that.” John set down the pen and pushed past the doctor towards the exit where a cab Malik had kindly called was already waiting for him.

***

“He wants you to what?”

“He wants me to come back. With a case file and a theory,” John explained into his cell phone as he balanced it between his ear and shoulder, one hand using his cane and the other making tea to calm his fried nerves. He heard Lestrade sigh deeply through the line.

“I can’t let him see a case file. I’m not even supposed to let you see a case file,” he said, tiredly.

“I tried to explain that but he was… adamant.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.” There was a brief pause in the conversation as the two thought things over and John put his kettle on the stove to cook. He felt a rush of guilt pool in his stomach as he spoke up again.

“You know, Greg. I’d really like to help with this case but there’s no way I can do that unless I’m speaking to Sherlock. But I can’t speak to Sherlock unless I have that case file,” he said, taking the prisoner’s advice.

“Yes, I know, but it’s impossible.”

“Greg, you asked me for my help. I’m trying to give it to you but I can’t until I have everything I need.” There was a long moment of silence as John waited for his old colleague to answer.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Come over tomorrow and I’ll give you a case file.”

“Thanks, Greg. I really appreciate it.”

“But understand it’s going to be heavily redacted.”

“Of course. If Sherlock gives me any fuss I can just bribe him with a cold case or something,” John reasoned.

“John, are you… are you being safe? With him,” Lestrade asked cautiously.

“Of course I’m being safe,” John asked, offended that his old friend would think so little of him. “I was a detective you know. I know how to handle people like him.”

“I know you do, it’s just that you seem a little eager to talk to him again.” John felt the feeling of betrayal smack him hard in the chest, causing his heart to tighten and squeeze.

“I’m not eager to talk to him. I just want to get this case solved,” he said in a steeled tone.

“Of course. I’m sorry, John it’s just been a long day.” He could hear how tired the investigator was over the phone and decided to cut him some slack.

“It’s okay, Greg. I’ll see you tomorrow to pick up that file.”

“See you tomorrow, John.” The two hung up and John was left in the silence of his kitchen. Slowly, he felt the feeling a betrayal turn into realization; the realization that Greg was right. Beside him, his tea kettle started to whistle.


	5. Unknown Caller

John got up early to head to the yard. He knew Lestrade would be in early and he wanted to head out to Sherrinford as soon as he was done picking up the file so he could be in bed and forgetting about Sherlock Holmes as soon as possible.

“You can wait out here. I’ll just be a minute,” he told his taxi driver as he got out in front of the yard. He went inside and heading up the elevator to where Lesterade’s office was located. Once he got to the block of desks and file cabinets he used to work at he found that it hadn’t changed too much. Save for a few unfamiliar faces.

“John?” The voice made him jump. He turned around to find Sally Donovan walking up to him, a look of concern etched into her features. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh. Hi, Sally. I’m just here to pick something up from Greg,” John lied, knowing that his friend could get into trouble if he told her the truth.

“Is it about the case,” she asked.

“Oh, no. It’s unrelated.” John tried to leave it at that but the look Donovan gave him showed that she wasn’t exactly buying it.

“How’ve you been,” she asked suddenly.

“Uh, pretty good. I’ve been living in the Grove.” Donovan smiled at that.

“That’s good, John. I’m happy you got out of the city.”

“Thank you. How’ve you been,” he asked, noting the large bags under her eyes.

“Oh, you know. This case we’re working on is killing me-“ she was cut off by the sound of someone calling her name from across the room. “I have to go, but it was nice seeing you.”

“Nice to see you too,” John said, as the investigator rushed off. He made his way to Lestrade’s office where is desk looked eerily to how it looked the last time John was in it; the night he’d gone to see Sherlock at his flat.

“John. You made it,” Lestrade greeted. John shook the feeling of deja vu and gave him a smile.

“Yeah, I thought I’d grab the files from you in the morning so I can get back to you by this evening,” he explained.

“I really appreciate your help with this, John,” the silver haired man said as he pulled out a file and began handing it to him. He hesitated slightly, causing John to give him a questioning look as he slowly took the file from him.

“Everything okay, Greg?”

“Yeah, I just… what I said last night. I shouldn’t have assumed. This case is just wearing me down and I’m just worried about putting you in harm's way,” he said, his eyes filled with exhaustion and guilt.

“You’re not putting me in harm’s way,” John said. “I agreed to help.”

“Yeah, but are you sure you’re okay with going back to see Holmes? I could send someone with you.”

“Greg, I’m fine. I swear,” John lied as he tried to keep a straight face.

“Okay,” Lestrade said after a beat. “But let me know if it becomes too much for you.” 

“I will. And I’ll call you later,” John said as he hurried out the door, wanting to get away from the office and his lies as soon as possible.

***

As John sat in the back of the taxi on his way to the prison, he fiddled with the file nervously. Would Sherlock still talk to him even though he still had no theories? Would the file be enough? He became lost in thought as he gazed out the window to the cloudy morning. Suddenly an idea popped into his head.

He pulled out his phone and went back to his recent calls. He found the call from the mysterious man who told him about the cases and saw that the caller ID simply read “unknown caller”. He clicked the information tab and noted that it listed no number for the strange call. He turned off his phone and rubbed its edge on his chin as he thought.

Maybe the caller was the killer or at least knew who was. They were the ones who said the cases were connected to Sherlock in the first place, and they’d been the one to call him after he’s gotten out of the hospital. 

But that seemed too obvious. Why would the killer call him? John kicked himself. It was too easy. But it was something. He’d have to ask Sherlock about it to see what he thought. Maybe he even knew the identity of the caller.

***

John stepped up to the front desk where the woman who’d helped him yesterday sat. She smiled up at him politely. She looked to kind to work in such a place.

“Back again,” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes again,” John said as he started to fill out the proper forms.

“Oh. I’m sorry, but you can’t see any prisoners without approval from Dr. Anderson.”

“Well could I talk to the doctor?”

“I’m sorry. He’s not in right now. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Could you come back tomorrow?”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to,” John said, dreading the idea of having to spend another night awake thinking about coming back to the prison.

“I’m so sorry. I wish I could help,” the woman said sincerely.

“Well, I was just here yesterday. Do I really need permission again?” The woman mulled it over for a moment before she shook her head.

“I’m sorry. I can’t break the rules for you.”

“Look,” John said lowly, leaning in close. “I’m not sure if you know why I visited last time, but I’m John Watson.” The woman gasped.

“The John Watson?”

“That’s right. And the reason I’m here is to try and get some closure. Now, I’m not sure when I’ll next be able to come here, but it’s really important that I see Sherlock Holmes.” The woman bit her lip before looking around the room for anyone listening.

“I don’t have the authority to let you to go down to the basement.” John nodded, his heart sinking at the knowledge that he’d have to return to the dreary prison. “But an orderly could.” John have her a bright smile.

“Is Art Malik working today,” he asked.

“I’ll call him up. Why don’t you have a seat and finish filling out these forms?” Only a few minutes later the orderly was guiding John back down to the basement.

“That for him,” he asked, gesturing to the file under John’s arm.

“I’m to show it to him, yes.”

“Did you get permission from Dr. Anderson?”

“Of course,” John lied through his teeth. 

“Okay, but just to remind you; no pens, pencils, or paper clips.”

“Of course.” The two stopped in the small surveillance room as Malik unlocked the door to Sherlock’s hallway.

“The chair’s still down there.”

“Thank you,” John said before he limped down to the cell. Sherlock was sitting at his desk, etched over a piece of paper he was writing on with a piece of charcoal. 

“John,” he said without looking up. “I’m surprised to see you back so soon.” 

“I got your file,” John said, trying to keep his voice and nerves under control.

“Slide it through, won’t you,” Sherlock asked, waving towards a sliding box to his right. John hesitated before walking up to the box and sliding the file through. Sherlock picked up his smell when he neared the air holes cut into the glass wall.

“You smell like Sally Donovan,” he said with a grin, not making a move to grab the file.

“I saw her this morning,” John said as he sat down.

“She’s got a new boyfriend, does she,” Sherlock asked.

“Wouldn’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s planning on leaving her anyway,” the prisoner said as he finally turned to grab the file and placed it on his desk before thumbing through it. John sat in awkward silence as he watched him read.

“It’s been heavily redacted,” he spoke up.

“Shh,” Sherlock hushed him.

“But I just wanted to-“

“Shh.” John sat back in his chair with an internal sigh and waited for the ex-consulting detective to finish reading. It took nearly twenty minutes before he finally flipped the file shut and turned to face him with a sly grin. “Well, you held up part of the bargain. Now for the second half. What’s your theory?”

“Don’t you want to talk about the file,” John asked.

“No. I want to talk about your theory. If you don’t have one you can leave and come back at a later date.”

“Why are you causing so much trouble? You asked to speak to me,” John said, his voice rising in agitation and volume.

“Because what’s the use of telling you everything the first time if I know you have no reason to come back? Now do you have a theory or not?” It took John a moment to respond, stunned by the killer’s honesty.

“I have a, uh, a suspect.”

“You have a suspect,” Sherlock asked in an unsupportive tone. “And who is your suspect?”

“There was a man who called me just before Lestrade came to talk to me about the case. He said the case was linked to you.” Sherlock suddenly turned strikingly serious. His shift in mood made John’s skin crawl.

“Was this the first time he called you,” Sherlock asked lowly.

“No. He’d called me years before shortly after I got out of the hospital.”

“What did he say then?”

“He apologizes for you,” John explained. He jumped when Sherlock jolted up out of his chair, glaring down at the smaller man.

“He apologized for me?! Who does he think he is?!”

“So you know him,” John asked over Sherlock’s pacing and the sound of him mumbling absently to himself.

“Did he say I did,” he asked, looking back at John. He walked over to the glass wall keeping them separated.

“He… he said he was you enemy,” John stuttered, feeling extremely agitated at the sight of his once-attacker looming over him. Sherlock chuckled at his answer.

“An enemy. That’s rich,” he said before he sat on his bed, leaning his back against the concrete wall and putting his palms together in thought.

“So? Do you know him,” John asked, annoyed with the lack of answers he was receiving.

“He’s not the killer.”

“Then who is he?”

“Does it matter? He’s not the killer! Who cares who he is,” Sherlock shouted. John clenched his jaw and waited for Sherlock to say more, but when he didn’t, he spoke up again.

“So are you going to tell me something useful or are you wasting my time.” Sherlock looked up at him, seemingly surprised at his tone. He smiled at him almost genuinely.

“How do you think he knows so much about my murders?”

“Because he knows you.”

“Yes, that’s how he knows about the victims, but how does he know about the details of their cases? How does he know their address to kill their neighbors, or their family lineage to kill their relatives?” It took John a moment to catch on, but when he did his face lit up with realization.

“He got access to the case files.”

“Precisely. He’s a hacker, and a skilled one at that. It’ll be very tricky to source his hacking, but Mike’s good enough to get it done.” 

“I have to call Greg. I have to tell him to get Mike on it,” John mumbled to himself as he stood up from his seat and started walking towards the exit, his hand already fishing out his cell.

“John,” Sherlock called. He spun around and slowly walked back to the cell.

“Yes,” he asked nervously.

“Your file,” Sherlock purred as he dropped it back into the sliding box and slid it over to John, his eyes on the limped man the whole while. John looked down, not willing to meet his eyes and took the file before he started his walk again. “See you soon, John.”


	6. John’s Bad Day

Malik left John to walk the rest of the way out once they’d reached the main floor of the building. He’d already gotten off the phone with Lestrade and was walking as quickly as he could towards the main doors, his file grasped tightly in hand.

“Excuse me, Mr. Watson,” a nasally voice called out. John stopped in his tracks and turned around to see Dr. Anderson walk towards him with a deep glare. “What on earth do you think you’re doing here,” he demanded.

“Um, just leaving.” 

The doctor did not appreciate his sass and said, “you’re coming from seeing Holmes aren’t you? Don’t you know you need permission from his primary psychiatrist in order to visit him?”

“Well I’d already gotten your permission and my therapist thought it’d be helpful if-“

“You’ve spoken to your therapist? Since yesterday? And what, did she say you needed for closure?”

“She said a lot of things,” John said, anxious to get out of there so he could go back to the yard.

“And what’s this,” The doctor asked, reaching out for the file in his hand, but coming up short when John pulled it just out of reach before putting it behind his back.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? It looked like a file. Are you working with the yard again, detective?”

“I’m not a detective and I’m not working with the yard.”

“Is this about the string of murders? Are they somehow related to Holmes,” the annoying man asked, growing excited.

“I am not at liberty to say,” John said definitively. He continued once he saw the man open his mouth to speak again. “Because I’m not working with the yard. I’m sorry I caused you trouble, but I’ll be leaving now.” John turned around and hurried out the door; away from the doctor and away from Sherlock. He needed to get back to the yard to see if tracking the hacker was something Mike could even do.

The irritated psychiatrist watched him go, his nostrils flaring in anger. He stormed into his office and picked up his phone.

“Kitty. It’s me.”

***

“Anything yet,” John asked as he walked back into Lestrade’s office. They’d been waiting for Mike to get back to them for hours until John decided to go get them some coffee. It had gotten so late they were ones of the only people still there, save for some stragglers.

“Nothing,” the investigator said with a tired sigh as he took one of the coffees from the cup holder John carried. John set the carrier down on his messy desk before taking his own drink and sitting back in the chair he’d been sitting in for the last several hours.

“Do you think Mike will even find anything?”

“Mike’s smart and he’s got a good team. Even if they can’t track the hacker I’m sure they’ll be able to find evidence that it happened.” John nodded and took a long drink. Lestrade stared at him, a question in mind. John raised an eyebrow at him when he noticed.

“What?”

“I’m just wondering; should we even believe Sherlock about the hacking angle?”

“Well, how else could the killer get so much information on the killer?”

“Sherlock could’ve told him.”

“How would Sherlock know Martha Hudson lived downstairs from Neilson Boyce,” John asked.

“He was clever enough to find out,” Lestrade argued. John sighed heavily. “I’m just saying, maybe we should take what Sherlock says with a bit more scrutiny.”

“Scrutiny? You asked me to get information from Sherlock, so I have. If you don’t believe in the information I’m giving you, then why am I helping,” John asked, his breathing growing more ragged as his anger grew.

“Because I need it. I need your help. I’m just worried I’m wasting efforts on finding this mystery hacker when Sherlock could be pointing us in the wrong direction on purpose. Look, we’ve always known the killer knows Sherlock, so hasn’t he just told us who he is?”

“Because if he did I’d have no reason to go back,” John blurted. He bit his tongue as soon as the words left his mouth. Lestrade stared at him in stunned silence.

“John-“

“Save it,” he said, holding up his hand to silence him. They sat in the heavy awkwardness that filled the room before Lestrade dared to speak up again.

“John. Have you ever thought he’s lying to you to make you keep going back,” he asked quietly. John didn’t answer, his eyes downcast. “I’m just worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be.” John stood up and started inching towards the door. “I’m going home. Call me if Mike finds anything.” Lestrade said nothing as he watched John leave. Soon after, Sally was walking in, her tired eyes looking around for the man who’d just left.

“Is John gone,” she asked.

“Yeah. He just went home,” Lestrade answered as he typed absently at his computer.

“Sir, I actually wanted to talk to you about him.”

“What about him?”

“I’m worried about him working on this case.”

“He’s not working on the case,” Lesterade said, turning to face her with a glare.

“I’m worried about him working on a case related so close to what happened,” she continued, not minding what he said. Her superior sighed, dropping his act.

“I am too, but I don’t know what else to do.”

At home John was welcomed by the sight of several journalists and photographers waiting outside his cottage. He snuck around the side of his house without them seeing and headed to his back door. He was unlocking it when a woman’s voice sounded.

“Mr. John Watson. Nice to meet you.” John spun around to see a red-headed woman walking towards him.

“This is private property,” he said, unamused.

“I understand you’ve been visiting Sherlock Holmes in prison,” she continued. 

“Oh lord,” John sighed before turning back to his door.

“Are you working the cases of multiple murders? Are they related to Sherlock Holmes’ crimes in some way?”

“I’m not answering your questions,” John said as he finally got his door unlocked.

“If people are in danger, they have the right to know,” she called. He hesitated before turning to her.

“People aren’t in danger,” he lied. “I’m not working the case.” She gave him an unconvinced look. “Now get off my property before I call the cops.” John went inside and slammed the door shut, making sure to lock it behind him.

The next morning John found a blown up picture of himself on the front page of his newspaper. It had been taken years ago right after the trial when the media had still been hounding him. The bold text above it read “ex-detective meets with killer”. John flipped through the pages until he landed on the story. 

He only got through the first few sentences, which read, “a reliable source told writer Kitty Riley that the ex-detective John Watson, best known for being stabbed by notorious serial killer, Sherlock Holmes, has recently visited Holmes in prison on multiple occasions. Sources also point to Watson consulting the killer on the string of murders that have been terrorizing the streets of London over the past several months.” John crumpled up the paper and threw it to the floor before he got up and stomped to his phone.

***

“John, I’m surprised you’re calling,” Sherlock’s dark voice said into the prison phone.

“Who did you tell?”

“What are you referring to, John,” the prisoner asked with a smirk.

“Who did you tell? Was it Anderson?”

“John, as amusing as it is to hear you all worked up, I find it a great insult that you think I would tell the bumbling idiot anything of importance. Now what are you talking about,” Sherlock asked.

“Who did you tell about me coming to meet you? There were reporters at my door last night and this morning the newspaper is talking about how you’re consulting me on the case,” John said, practically yelling into the phone.

“I haven’t told anyone why you were meeting with me.” The limped man scoffed. “John, I swear. I haven’t told anyone. Not Anderson, not anyone.”

“Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? They implicated you with the case! It’s going to be hell trying to be discreet with the investigating now!”

“I swear to you, I haven’t told anyone. I don’t know how they got that information,” Sherlock said.

“God, I can’t believe I trusted you. After all you’ve done,” John chided, mostly talking to himself.”

“Why don’t you come back?”

“Come back? You want me to visit you again,” the tired man asked in disbelief.

“Yes. I want to explain to you that you’re wrong.”

“That I’m wrong,” John repeated with annoyed sarcasm.

“Yes. Come back and I’ll explain it all to you,” Sherlock said in an almost desperate tone.

“I can’t come back! I can’t even leave my house let alone come back!” Sherlock felt a twinge of anger squeeze at his heart. That and a mixture of something else, something he couldn’t identify.

“John, please,” he said simply.

“No. We’re done,” the other said before he hung up sharply. As Sherlock was led back to his cell, his wrists and ankles bound, he finally put a name to the mysterious feeling. It was guilt.

***

“What the hell is going on over there,” Lesterade shouted into his phone.

“I don’t know. Somehow it got out that I was meeting with Holmes,” John said, tiredly.

“Yeah, thanks for that. We have to hold a press conference now and tell everyone the spree is related to Holmes.”

“Greg, I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened.”

“I can tell you how it happened. He lied to you. And not just about this; about everything. Mike didn’t find any trace of the yard’s computer system being hacked. He’s been playing us the whole time!”

“Greg, I’m so sorry. I thought I was helping.”

“And that’s not even the worst of it. The body of a man named Andy Galbraith has been found. John, he was related to Jeffrey Patterson.”

“The first victim of the strangulation murders,” John said with shocked realization.

“He’s almost done. We’re running out of time to catch him.”


	7. Running Out if Time

The press conference went as bad as expected. John watched it on the television, his guilt eating away at him as he saw Greg, Sally, and all the others struggle through the questions. For days afterward he tried calling in to offer his help, but he only ever got a busy signal. It was only eight days later that the news came out about Gary Jenkins, a friend of the second strangulation victim, going missing.

Ten days after that, the body of Jeff Hope, an old colleague of Beth Davenport, the third strangulation victim, was discovered. After that Lestrade finally called John back.

“We have no leads. No evidence. I have no other choice, John.”

“But you said we couldn’t trust anything he said.”

“We can’t, but I need you to see through it. When he consulted with us you were the only one who could tell if he was being honest or not.”

“That was a long time ago,” John said, already feeling drained by the idea.

“Well we’re running out of time.” The two sat in silence for a moment, both holding their phones up to their ears in sweaty palms. “John, we don’t have any other options.” It didn’t take him long to decide, but when John did he made sure his voice sounded steady.

“I’ll do it. But if I’m working the case, I’m going to need some things.”

***

“I’m surprised they let you back in,” Sherlock said earnestly as he watched John sit in his usual chair in front of his cell.

“Dr. Anderson is away dealing with a personal emergency apparently.”

“Still, I didn’t think that secretary of his would let you back in without his permission. I can’t imagine she didn’t get in a fair bit of trouble last time.”

“She didn’t want to, but I showed her my badge and she let me right through,” John explained, meeting eyes with the killer.

“They gave you your badge back,” Sherlock asked, his face wide in surprise. John nodded.

“For the time being, yes.” 

Sherlock composed himself before saying, “I’m surprised you’re back at all, given our last conversation.”

“I didn’t have a choice. The killer, he’s killed people connected to James Phillimore and Beth Davenport. We’re running out of time to catch him.”

“He’s skipping to the end,” Sherlock mumbled to himself.

“I need you to tell me who he is right now. No more lies,” John demanded.

“Lies? I haven’t lied to you once!”

“You lied about the hacker lead! We checked, there was no evidence of anyone hacking into the yard!”

“Well they didn’t check hard enough,” Sherlock shouted.

“Sherlock,” John said before he stood out of his seat and stepped up to the glass of his cell. The taller man looked down at him with wide eyes as he did. “I’m Don’t with your games, we’re running out of time. You need to tell me right now who he is.”

“And what do you think will happen when you run out of time?”

“He’ll go free. We don’t have any evidence. All we have is your word. Now tell me,” John said, trying to keep from begging. Sherlock eyed him for a moment before he stepped away from the glass and started pacing his small cell.

“Before that. Once he’s killed the last person connected to my strangulation victims. What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know? Run? I can’t imagine he’d stay around long.” Sherlock sighed heavily. 

“What do you think his end goal is,” he asked, restating his question.

“Does a killer have an end goal,” John asked.

“I did. And I can imagine what his is as well.” John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s stubbornness but paused when they landed at the sight of an old newspaper sitting on his desk. It was the one from weeks ago, the one with John on the cover. Realization hit him like a truck.

“He’s going to come after me,” he asked in a quiet voice, his face growing pale. Sherlock stopped in his place, turning to face his old friend with a downtrodden expression.

“You caught me, John. Before I stabbed you. You knew it was me. You’ll find him before he gets to you,” he said in a sweetly sincere voice. 

“The only way I can find him is if you tell me who he is.” Sherlock shook his head.

“I can’t do that, John.” The newly reinstated detective threw his head back in annoyance as he started to do his own pacing up and down the hallway in front of the cell. “But you were close.”

“How? How was I close?”

“Why do you think he’s skipping to the end? Why do you think he’s killing them off so fast all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know? He’s bored of it?”

“Bored of killing? I doubt it,” Sherlock said with a chuckle. John shot him a glare before the killer spoke up again. “It’s because you got close. He knew you were looking into the hacker angle, that’s why he’s speeding things up. You got too close.”

“But we couldn’t find any evidence of hacking.”

“Maybe I was wrong.” John laughed at the very idea of Sherlock saying such a thing. He paused in his pacing and looked to the ex-consultant with a grin.

“Did you really just say that?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock gritted out, ignoring him. “He didn’t need to hack to get to the information.”

“You’re saying he’s on the force?” 

“You’re close.” John nodded and looked down, lost in thought before Sherlock pulled him back into reality. “Why did you decide to become a detective,” he asked suddenly.

“What,” John asked, surprised.

“Why did you decide to become a detective,” Sherlock repeated slowly.

“Um, I had just gotten back from the war. I was tired of doing medicine and it seemed like-“

“You had just gotten back from the war,” the prisoner interrupted.

“Yes.”

“And how long did it take before you left medicine and decided to go back?”

“Go back to what?”

“The war. I bet you missed it, didn’t you? Craved it even. The adrenaline. The danger. Did it feel good to hunt me? To be the one to first realize it was me who put all those bodies in the ground,” Sherlock asked, stepping up closer to the glass and to John who looked up at him in amazement and horror.

“That wasn’t war,” he said lamely.

“But it was close, wasn’t it? You crave it, John. The blood, the gore. You miss it, even if you can’t admit it. That’s why you decided to help on this case.”

“I decided to help because people were dying.”

“People are always dying, John. But these people, they’re related to the people I killed. Did it feel good to be so close to that feeling again,” Sherlock paused as if waiting for an answer. When none came, he continued in his low voice. “If the closest thing you’ll get to war, John. I’m what you crave. You need to admit it.” John stepped back suddenly, just then noticing how fast his heart was beating. “It’s okay, John,” Sherlock tried to soothe. “You don’t have to say anything now. Just go back to the yard. Think about what I said.” Not knowing what else to do, John nodded before he started walking down the hall. “John, you forgot something.”

He turned around and walked back to cell and said, “I didn’t bring any files,” with a confused look.

“No, not that. Your cane.” John looked over to where his cane sat, leaned against the chair where he’d left it. He’d been walking without it the whole time and hadn’t noticed. He silently walked over to it and picked it up, inspecting it in his hand in shock before looking up at Sherlock who was grinning at him happily. “You missed the war, John. Welcome back.” John said nothing and walked away, his cane grasped tightly in his hand, though he didn’t use it.

Not long after John left, Dr. Anderson stormed down, flanked by two orderlies. Sherlock didn’t glance up at them from where he lay on his bed, staring up at his ceiling.

“Evening,” he greeted, lowly.

“Tell me what’s going on right now, Holmes,” The doctor shouted.

“Whatever could you mean,” Sherlock asked in a sing-song voice.

“First that detective comes to see you about the case and now my friend has gone missing!”

“You’re friends with Kitty Riley. Of course. I should’ve seen it earlier,” the patient said to himself.

“What?!”

“I’m becoming a bit slow. Perhaps it’s due to a lack of mental stimulation,” the prisoner mused to himself.

“What. Is going. On,” Anderson asked in a furious tone.

“You told her John was visiting me, didn’t you,” Sherlock asked, sitting up suddenly. The two orderlies jumped back in surprise while the doctor tried not to look so nervous.

“What does that matter? She’s missing.”

“You caused a lot of trouble for John.”

“What do you care? You’re the one who stabbed him!” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man. A warning.

“I don’t know where your stupid friend is. Now leave me in peace,” he said before laying back down. Anderson sighed before walking away, the orderlies following close behind.

***

On the taxi ride back, John thought over what Sherlock had said. Not about him missing the violence of the war; he was too nervous about what that thought would lead to. Instead, he thought about what he had said about the killer getting into the yard’s database without hacking in. He said he’d been close when he brought up the idea of someone on the force being the killer, but who else could it be? 

An ex-officer? No they changed the passwords far too often for that. Someone with access to an officer’s computer and information? Maybe, but that’d be tricky. The thought consumed John his whole ride back to London.

***

Several days later, in the late evening when most of the prison staff had gone home, a young, happy-looking man was walking up the main doors of the prison. He walked up to the front desk and was greeted by the secretary with a smile.

“Good evening, Jim. How’ve you been,” she asked, sweetly.

“I’m alright. Is Molly still here,” the man asked.

“In the infirmary. You go right ahead.”

“Thanks. Have a good night,” he called back as he headed towards down the hall. He stepped into the prison infirmary where a lone doctor was still working away. “Hey, gorgeous.” The woman jumped in surprise and whipped around to face him.

“Jim! You scared me.”

“Sorry, love. I was just trying to surprise you,” he said said as he walked up to her, giving her a hug and a kiss. “You about ready to go?”

“Yeah, let me just finish up a few things.”

“Do you mind if I go to the restroom while you finish up,” he asked.

“Of course not. Just take my key card,” The doctor said with a smile. The man grabbed the card off the counter top and threw her a smile.

“Thanks, love. I won’t be gone long,” he said before leaving.

Instead of heading towards the restrooms, he headed down towards the basement, avoiding guards and flicking the card between his fingers. He’d stolen it many times before. Both to access into the prison’s database and to walk the lonely halls of said prison.

It wasn’t hard to get past the guard in the surveillance room blocking off the stairs from Sherlock’s hallway. He’d had Sebastian slip in some sleeping pills into the man’s drink an hour or so before. Jim unlocked the barred door and practically skipped down to Sherlock’s cell where the little psychopath still lay on his bed, his eyes closed.

“Look at you all cozied up,” Jim said in a high pitched voice.

“I imagine you’ve looped the camera feed,” Sherlock replied, not bothering to look at him or even open his eyes

“Obviously. How could you think so little of me,” the strange visitor flirted.

“Well you have become more brazen lately. What will your little nurse think when she finds you missing?”

“If I were you, I'd be more worried about your detective,” Jim said as he slinked up to the cell.

“Ah yes. You’re skipping right to the end, aren't you? I understand you’ve already taken care of Ms. Riley. I’m guessing she worked with Jennifer Wilson.”

“Naturally,” the shorter man said as he began walking aimlessly around the hall, almost dancing to a song only he heard.

“Well, you were never known for being patient,” Sherlock insulted, his eyes still closed where he continued to lay.

“Ugh, can you blame me? It got so boring,” Jim said, emphasizing the last word heavily. “Not all of us can kill off every person who slightly annoys us.”

“I guess I just expected you to try harder.” Jim stopped in his tracks, his mood turning venomous.

“It’s not my fault. You’re little detective got too close. I had to jump to the end to catch him before he wised up and went on the run,” he said, his voice dripping with anger. Sherlock chuckled to himself.

“I’d have thought you’d be up for the challenge,” he taunted.

“I am, but my men are getting tired. I’ve been running them absolutely ragged,” Jim answered in a cartoonish voice.

“Of course you have your men doing your dirty work. You were always one to keep your own hands clean.”

“Yes, but I haven’t gotten as much help as you might think. And after they bring me sweet Johnny, I’ll kill him myself.”

“What exactly do you plan on doing with him?” A wide grin slithered across Jim’s face.

“You’re just dying to know, aren’t you? How I’m going to hurt your little detective. Are you angry, or jealous?”

“Neither. It’s just out of curiosity,” Sherlock said, showing no signs that he actually cared about the fate of his old friend. Jim’s grin dropped.

“You don’t have to be a spoilsport. I am looking forward to putting him out of his misery though.” He paused to glance at his watch. “Sorry dearheart, but I should be going. I’m taking Molly out to dinner tonight.”

“Send her my love,” Sherlock said, his eyes still closed.

“Can do.” Jim started to make his way down the hall but stopped and turned on his heel to shout back, “keep an eye on the paper for the next few days! You’ll see an article talking about the disappearance of your detective soon enough! I’m hoping to make the front page,” he called out before laughing loudly and continuing his walk.

Back in his cell Sherlock was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes betraying his nervousness. He quickly jumped up out of bed and walked over to his desk before he started writing out a message in charcoal text.


End file.
